


A Witcher's Heart

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dark Magic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Found Family, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Torture, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: In books and songs, there are always clues that warn the audience that a great tragedy is about to occur. A spot of blood against the clean floor. A broken window, perhaps, or a darkened home. Their hearts would race with anticipation only to gasps as the true horror unfolded.For Jaskier, the tragedy looked like this:Two bodies moving awkwardly off the tumbled bedspread.Dark hair tumbling over shoulders bared by a shirt that was far too large for a woman’s body.Familiar scars left behind by a life of war joined now by a deep bruise along one collarbone in the shape of a mouth.Yellow eyes meeting his with agony marring their depths—too much emotion to belong to the man responsible for the way Jaskier’s chest seemed collapse around the shards of his broken heart.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 153
Kudos: 538





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a short story posted to Tumblr in response to the prompt "Sometimes old wounds hurt the most."

Whistling under his breath, Jaskier shouldered open the doorway of a small, whitewashed cottage set just a few hundred yards from the ocean waves and briny air of the coast.

It had been two years since the day he’d walked away, heartbroken and devastated by Geralt’s furious words. A little over a year since they’d found each other—Jaskier, older and warier; Geralt, a little more broken and a little more whole with his Child Surprise by his side. It had taken months of awkward silences and subtle flinches before things had returned to the familiar pattern of life before the mountain.

Though they’d managed to skip friendship entirely to hurtle headfirst into heated kisses and long nights tangled together underneath the stars.

There was no more talk of Oxenfurt or even Kaer Morhen. Geralt just followed with Ciri as they moved closer and closer to the coast that Jaskier had craved for so long. They found a way to move past the nightmares that still plagued Ciri and occasionally Jaskier to create a space that was safe from monsters and tyrants. A _home_.

Of course Geralt continued to take contracts and traveled on occasion, but he always came back. He always came back to Jaskier and held him even tighter to make up for the time away.

Even stranger was the day that Yennefer managed to find her place in their odd little family. She’d come with Geralt after the fall of Nilfgaard carrying new scars and shadows in her strange eyes. It was obvious that she was completely enamored with the Lion Cub (no longer lost, but always of Cintra) and would protect her as fiercely as any biological mother.

She and Geralt, too, had found a rhythm that suited them. Still beautiful, still tied together at the core of their souls, but now they had a greater bond centered on the love of a child instead of fickle chemistry between one another. Geralt trusted her to take care of the things that he could not and she the same to him.

Jaskier had taken longer to accept this odd addition—too jaded from his old hurts to accept her with open arms. They danced around each other like alley cats until the day Yennefer had flopped down next to him to watch Geralt sparring with Ciri in the fields below.

“He’s happier here, with you,” she’d said quietly, “I could never have given him that.”

It was harder to hate her after that.

They returned to their habit of teasing and barbed jokes at one another and never mentioned the way the words no longer carried any heat. Yennefer procured pops and expensive scents to leave in Jaskier’s room without a word and Jaskier crafted a series of songs featuring a purple eyed sorceress defeating her enemies. When Geralt was gone, they talked late into the night over wine and even occasionally cuddled on their small couch—Jaskier’s fingers tracing odd symbols over her back and Yennefer’s nails scratching through his hair.

Their new life was wonderfully, devastatingly good here.

Maybe that was why it was destined to be destroyed.

He stepped through the doorway with the heavy bag filled with goods from the market and Ciri following in his wake with her own cache of goods. There had been a wonderful vendor selling strawberries at a discount for anyone who’d take more that a pound and Jaskier was eager to try his hand at baking some of strawberry tarts his mother used to make.

“Geralt!” He called, distracted to piling the bags onto the kitchen table. “Yenn?”

There was a thump from their bedroom and he frowned, setting his things aside to move closer.

“Geralt?” he repeated, reaching for the handle of their bedroom door.

In books and songs, there are always clues that warn the audience that a great tragedy is about to occur. A spot of blood against the clean floor. A broken window, perhaps, or a darkened home. Their hearts would race with anticipation only to gasps as the true horror unfolded.

For Jaskier, the tragedy looked like this:

Two bodies moving awkwardly off the tumbled bedspread.

Dark hair tumbling over shoulders bared by a shirt that was far too large for a woman’s body.

Familiar scars left behind by a life of war joined now by a deep bruise along one collarbone in the shape of a mouth.

Yellow eyes meeting his with agony marring their depths—too much emotion to belong to the man responsible for the way Jaskier’s chest seemed collapse around the shards of his broken heart.

He must have made a sound because Ciri came to stand his side and sucked in a shocked breath at the sight of Geralt and Yennefer, barely clothed and destroying what was left of the life they’d built here. Ironically, it was her reaction that seemed to break what little control he had left.

He spun, eyes blurring even as his mind screamed for him to run. Run far away from this nightmare and hope to never witness it again.

Someone shouted his name behind him, but he didn’t stop, _couldn’t_ stop, until he could no longer smell the sea or the promises he’d left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get to see Geralt's perspective.

Watching Jaskier run from the house with devastation carved into his face hurt worse than any blow he’d been dealt.

Geralt started forward, numb legs sluggish with a grief too terrible to bear, but familiar hands pulled him to a stop.

“ _Don’t_ \--” Yennefer’s voice was rough with her own demons, but she clung to him with determination in her strange eyes, “--we had to do this.”

“Did you see him?” he snarled, trying to summon anger in an effort to push aside the reality of all he’d just broken. “He--he’s...”

“It’s the only way to keep him safe.”

“He’ll never forgive me.”

Yennefer opened her mouth, but it was another voice who answered him.

“How could you?” They both turned to see Ciri standing next to the doorway Jaskier had disappeared through with a cold fury in her eyes. “He _trusted_ you. He trusted _both_ of you!”

He loved you, she didn’t say. They already knew.

“Ciri...” Yennefer began, but Ciri shook her head.

“How many times will you break his heart before you’re satisfied?” Ciri hissed and Geralt flinched like she’d struck him.

His tongue felt thick in his mouth and he could feel his eyes burning at the thought of how easy it had been to destroy everything they had built with Jaskier here. Geralt tried to remember the way Jaskier had smiled at him--wide and trusting--just that morning when he’d declared that he was heading into town to get some things from the market. Already the house felt empty, cracks appearing in the walls like without the bard to hold it together the house began to fall apart.

If he closed his eyes he knew he would see the look in Jaskier’s eyes the moment he’d seen Yennefer and Geralt. It had been so easy for him to believe the worst.

“It’s not what you think,” Yennefer tried again, hands held out to match the pleading in her expression. “We’re trying to _save_ him.”

Ciri’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits and Geralt wondered if she would attack them for what they’d done. “What is there left to save? You’ve taken _everything_.”

His child surprise didn’t give them a chance to respond. She just turned on her heel and left the house to chase after Jaskier. After a beat, Yennefer followed.

Geralt stayed behind, listening to the ghosts of his own happiness die in the silence of the empty house.

* * *

It started with a whisper.

“They’re coming for you, Witcher.”

Geralt hadn’t taken the dying words of the hag to heart. It wasn’t the first time one of the creatures he’d hunted promised revenge with their dying breath and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. His mind had been full of anticipation for returning home to his family. To Jaskier.

The next mention had been a fluke.

He’d been passing through a town and, through habit, checked the message boards for any odd jobs he could complete for a little extra money on his way to Novigrad for work. There had been a few of the usual missives from locals searching for missing livestock or begging for someone to assist in work. He scanned them without interest until his eyes settled on a rough piece of parchment, faded by the weather.

At the center of the page was a roughly drawn medallion that burned with dark flames. The page made no mention of any work or needs, just the strange symbol and a short message beneath.

_Feras morte._

Death to monsters.

Geralt stared at it for another moment before carefully pulling the page free from the message board and tucking it into his pack. He resolved to find out more while he was Novigrad.

* * *

They called themselves The Order.

They were the kind of fanatical movement that made Geralt want to avoid humanity for good. Their focus had originally been altruistic--to protect humanity from the beasts and magical nightmares that roamed the land when Witchers didn’t arrive fast enough. They traveled in groups to areas plagued by barghest and noon wraiths had terrorized villagers. Through luck and growing skill, they began to make a name for themselves as champions of the people--a more palatable alternative to calling a Witcher for assistance.

With their popularity growing, a more sinister element of their beliefs became more obvious. Since the first Witcher had stepped foot on the Continent, they’d been targeted almost immediately for their unnatural new biology and abilities. Geralt had been run out of more than a few cities just because of the odd color of his eyes so the news that a group of human labeled his Witcher brethren in the same categories as the monsters they hunted wasn’t surprising.

Whatever the Order’s altruistic intents originally, they had wandered into darker realms once they gained a following.

Anything that was not fully human was considered a threat. For the first time in centuries, the Continent was home to witch burnings and mob attacks on children born with strange birthmarks or eerie features. They followed the path of wars and fed on the bitterness that lingered among the survivors. The Order gave the people of the Continent a new target for their anger.

Monsters--though the term became more flexible the longer they were around.

His contacts in Novigrad weren’t sure where the group had begun, but it was easy to track where they’d moved from the trail of bodies left in their wake. Dopplers. Hags. Hedgewitches. All burned to ash on massive pyres left at the edges of each village as a warning to the next--along with anyone foolish enough to try to protect them.

Geralt’s disdain for the blatant abuses of power and widespread violence slowly became tempered by a new fear. The Order seem able to move as they wanted without any response from local leaders too afraid of risking their wrath. They seemed an unstoppable force eager to continue their bloody crusade against anyone or anything that did not meet their standards for purity and innocence.

He was in Temeria when he found the dead Witcher.

There was little left of the warrior aside from burnt, tarnished medallion that had once hung proudly from his neck and the steel sword he must have wielded.

_Silver for monsters. Steel for humans._

The blade had been shattered into two pieces that were tossed alongside the burning remains of his bones. Geralt crouched beside it, hands passing over the scarred metal and meager remains of a life spent fighting for people who’d turned on him just as easily.

“Did you know him?”

Geralt turned at the soft voice, frowning at the woman standing at the edge of the trees. Her face was marked with age and deep sadness that seemed unending. 

“No,” he said gruffly.

She hummed, looking back at the pyre. “Perhaps it’s better that way.”

“Why’s that?”

The hand that trembled out was blackened along the fingertips with ash as she pointed toward the smoldering pit. “Those he loved lay there beside him.”

Geralt froze, something like horror in his expression. He looked back at the pyre once more, eyes picking out the bits of bones. “What?”

“That’s how the Order got him to surrender,” she said, “They told him they would spare the woman--Anna--and her child that he liked to visit in the village. He’d saved them from the creature who’d taken the girl’s father, you see, and he liked to check up on them whenever he passed by. Sirret was a gentle soul despite his calling--he only wanted to make sure they were safe. So he threw down his sword without a fight when the Order called for it and let them beat him and drag him through the town to the sounds of their mockery.”

“Then they killed him.” Geralt’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles went white.

The old woman’s eyes were dark with tragedy. “They killed the girl first, after a time. Then the mother was put out of her misery when her injuries became too much. Sirret...the Witcher held on for much longer.”

The broken sword suddenly seemed as morbid as a tomb.

He took a breath full of smoke and death and tried not to think about a bard choking on blood and a foolish wish. “Where did the Order go?”

* * *

“They’re too close. We need to do something.”

“What can we do that we haven’t already tried?” Geralt snapped, “I’ve been hunting them for months, but all I’ve managed to do is kill off a few of their soldiers.”

He carefully didn’t think about the promises they’d spat at him as they lay dying. Promises of pain and suffering beyond what anyone should bear.

Yennefer tossed back the last of the wine in her goblet and scowled down at the mess of messages, maps, and bits of notes sprawled across the table. They’d met at the tavern in the city closest to their cottage in an effort to keep the information far away from Jaskier and Ciri’s wandering eyes. So far, it hadn’t seemed to help.

Yenn had been the only one he’d dared to tell about the Order--as though admitting their presence would allow them to creep closer. Her contacts through Aretuza had made it easier to track where the Order had been most active, but continued to offer no solutions as to how to stop them. Ciri and Jaskier were far too important to risk as targets in someone’s campaign to destroy everything they considered dangerous.

“Whoever they are, they’re going to come for us soon. You know this. They know we’re hunting them--that makes us a threat.” Yennefer’s voice was firm despite the anxiety he could sense hanging in the air around them.

Geralt didn't respond. It was the same argument they’d been having for weeks. How could they protect Jaskier and Ciri from these horrors?

“Ciri will have to stay with us--she’s too valuable to risk letting them get their hands on her. They’d probably consider her to be a ‘tainted’ bloodline anyway.”

“And Jaskier?” he bit out, “Do you intend to leave him behind while you run off with Ciri?”

Yenn glared at him. “You know I don’t.”

Whatever their relationship might have been at one time, the mage and the bard were practically inseparable now.

Geralt scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “We can’t let the Order torture him to try to hurt us. He has to be safe.”

The burnt Witcher’s medallion in his pack seemed to laugh at him.

“There’s...” Yennefer sounded oddly reticent and he looked over at her curiously, “We could make Jaskier leave us.”

He shook his head. “He would never do that. Especially if he knew that we were in danger.”

“So we don’t let him know the Order is after us.”

“And say what? ‘Hey Jask..why don’t you stay at the University for the season?’ He’s not an idiot--he’d want to know why.”

Yennefer ran a finger over a drop of wine left on the table, face downcast. “What if we made him _want_ to leave?”

* * *

Days later, Geralt watched Jaskier run out of the house and pretended it didn’t feel like his world was burning down around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More from Jaskier next.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect to update this so soon, but the sad bard deserved more words.
> 
> (If you want to enhance your angst experience, I listened to "Blackout" by Freya Ridings on repeat while writing this.)

Jaskier ran.

Beneath his feet, the sand that lined the coast where he’d imagined his forever home crunched dully and sprayed up onto his clothes. He’d read once that each piece of sand was actually rock that had been chipped away by the waves. Proof that even the strongest foundations could be broken apart by the passage of time. 

He tried not to think about the pieces of his broken heart that joined them.

  
_____________________________

Only when his muscles are trembling with effort and he was stumbling more than anything, does he slow. His mind was numb now, thoughts drowned out by the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. He forced himself to move from a stumbling sprint into a walk in an effort to keep himself from the collapse he knows was coming. He doesn’t want to risk passing out on some forgotten road or worse--have some villager bring him back to the cottage he’d just left.

He was adrift. Lost.

The heartbreak of his youth felt inconsequential now. Whatever passing fancy he’d felt toward the Countess De Stael or the countless men and women who’d crossed his path over the years where ghosts compared to the living, breathing agony of the knowledge that followed in his heels. It carves bloody grooves into the bitter remains of the happiness he’d been stupid enough to believe would last.

He was an idiot. A foolish, lovesick idiot. He knew better than anyone about the strange connection that had always bound Geralt to Yennefer. One that was clearly far more powerful than the heart he’d laid at Geralt’s feet like a sacrifice. They were two planets, forever orbiting one another. And he was just the foolish mortal wishing on the stars for a chance to reach out and touch their beauty. 

He wondered if the Witcher cared enough to feel guilty about breaking his heart once again, but knew it was never that simple. Geralt could never truly understand the extent of what Jaskier had felt for him. The bard had traveled the Continent, risked his life, and given up the best years of his life knowing that the Witcher would never truly understand the emotion that drove him. The mage and the Witcher were far too damaged to allow anyone to get that close to them, but Jaskier had tried. Gods, had he tried.

In all that time, Jaskier had been content to be the one to bridge the gaps between them. Yennefer, too, carried the same scars left behind by years of being nothing more than a tool used by others. She reminded him of a cat--one that had been kicked far too many times to risk reaching out again. 

But they’d been good together. No matter how oddly their family appeared to outsiders, Jaskier had been happy with Geralt. He’d seen the Witcher soften the worst of the scars left behind by his life of war. He knew what it was like to see Geralt smile and know it was because of him. He knew that Geralt without the pressure of the Path preferred to sleep late and spend an inordinate amount of time doting on Roach. At night, he cherished the knowledge that Geralt preferred to sleep with Jaskier cuddled up to his back so he would never get cold.

Maybe it was worse. Maybe that taste of happiness, of _everything,_ would be the poison that ruined him. 

He just, he can’t _breathe_ through it. This knowledge. This curse of understanding how much of his life was a lie. 

Jaskier laughed, edged with hysteria, and ran his fingers through his tangled hair, pulling until the sharp pain of it centered him. He thought of the lyrics he’d sung after the mountain. Of sweet kisses and promises to a mage years later that he would never sing it again. That she was welcome there in their home because she belonged with them. 

Now the reality of his life yawned ahead of him, empty and seemingly endless. The thought of traveling alone again felt like the knife in his back was twisting deeper. For the first time in his life, there was no melody in his head—just the memory of two bodies breaking apart to watch his heart break. 

Tell me love how is that just? He thought with a mirthless twist. 

  
  
  


It’s dark now, but he didn’t stop walking forward. There was nothing for him on the path behind him and little hope for relief ahead, but there’s no other choice now. He can’t stop. Not here. Not yet. 

His feet were numb and his muscles past complaining by the time he saw the lights of the tavern ahead of him. If he weren’t choking on the broken pieces of his heart, he would be relieved at the chance to avoid sleeping out in the open. It was the first piece of luck he’d had all day. The adrenaline that had kept him moving this long had faded, leaving each step to grind like broken glass. 

He checked his pockets, pausing to consider what he had on him. There were a few coins left over from his trip to the market and the jar of ointment he’d gotten to soothe some of the aches Geralt got when the weather got colder. His lute was back at the cottage, of course, and he won’t return for it. He won’t think about the shy smile on Geralt's face when he’d passed it over, scarred hands gentle on the polished wood. He won’t think of the words that would drip from his lips like poison to chase away the memories of the time when he thought he’d held forever in his hands.

It’s too soon to pretend he wished them happiness together. If he closed his eyes, he’ll see the look on Geralt’s face when he stepped out of their bedroom. He would see the bruise marking the column of his throat like a badge, already fading with the help of his enhancements. Jaskier thought of the nights when the nightmares had lingered too closely and Yennefer had joined them to piled together in one bed, curled around each other like living shields.

Only to destroy each other later.

His mind wanted to wonder how long they’d been sneaking around behind his back. Or how often they looked at eachother with the same affection they’d shared when Jaskier was just a bard and Geralt was just a Witcher hiding from his past. The scars from the mountain and the heartache that followed seem distant now that he knows what it is like to have everything and lose it once again.

Inside the tavern he heard the familiar rumble of voices that he recognized from countless nights of revelry. In another lifetime, he’d relish the opportunity to sing to a new audience after limiting himself to the small town closest to their home. His mind would be full of potential setlists and melodies that would bring the crowd to their feet and coins into his pockets. He supposed that he needed to begin that life again now that he was alone.

The thought made his hands tremble on the door before he shouldered it open. He heard the conversation quiet for a beat before resuming after the locals took his measure. Jaskier barely glanced down at his muddy and ripped clothing before he made his way over to the bartender and gestured for a drink. He won’t be able to afford much--not with the costs of starting over looming ahead of him--but it might be enough to get a decent buzz.

The bartender looked less than impressed at his appearance, raking his eyes over the tear stains on his cheeks and the way his hands continued to tremble. Jaskier’s shoulders straightened at the implication, feeling the grief in his evolve into something far simpler--anger.

With a sneer, he tossed a few coins on the counter like a dare. It was probably more than what the drinks were worth, but he had no interest in being pitied or having more disdain leveled at him. The barkeep looked at him for a moment longer before grabbing the coins with a grunt and stomping off for some of the watered down ale he’d given the other guests.

Jasker settled onto the nearest chair and tried not to let himself think. His muscles were spasming and cramping now from the unexpected sprint and he forced himself to roughly rub the heel of his hand against his thighs to try to ease the worst of his discomfort. His feet throbbed painfully in his boots and he knew he’s probably got new blisters curtesy of his mad sprint down the road.

When the barmaid paused to set a full mug down beside him, Jaskier didn't bother to do more than nod his thanks. She lingered, dark eyes kinder than he deserved. “Rough night, love?”

His laugh had nothing to do with humor. “Something like that.”

She hummed and nudged him gently in silent understanding before returning to her work. He was painfully grateful that she didn’t ask for any more information. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t collapse into pieces at the reminder of all that had happened.

How did one begin to explain all the ways he’d ruined himself?

Jaskier methodically forced himself to take a long drink of the lukewarm liquid, imagining that it did something to ease his dry throat. When it doesn’t do more than slosh around in his empty stomach, he gestured to the bartender to pour him another. If nothing else, his life was proof that he didn’t stop when he should

A few minutes later, the barmaid returned with his drink and a platter of food, still warm. “On the house,” she said quietly.

The show of silent support made his eyes burn again and he gave her a tremulous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you.”

She nodded, giving him the space to grieve in peace and Jaskier was painfully grateful for it. His head felt like it was packed with cotton thanks to the first drink he’d polished off. Distantly, he realized that he hadn’t eaten since that morning and wondered if it was worth the hangover tomorrow if he just let himself use his empty stomach to make his meager drinking allowance count. Jaskier picked at the bread roll on the plate and forced himself to chew through the ash in his mouth.

He felt like he was bleeding from a wound no one could see. Only instead of the hazy fog he remembered from injuries long past, there was only more pain. 

He wanted to be _home_. Home in his bed with the familiar weight of Geralt’s arm around his waist and the sound of Yennefer and Ciri giggling outside. He wanted to open his eye and realize that this had all been a dream brought on by a mind that still remembered when Geralt had chosen someone else. 

He didn’t want to know how long his happiness had been a lie. 

Sluggishly, he dragged a finger through the condensation on the table, trying not to let himself remember why he was there. If he could just pretend this was just another tavern where he was performing, it wouldn’t be so bad. If he could just imagine a world where he hadn’t lost everything for the second time. If he could just--

A tear dripped down his cheek to land on the scarred wood.

He licked his lips and scrubbed away the salty moisture with a rough gesture. He told himself that he would only allow himself to wallow in his misery for one night before beginning this new chapter of his life. The university would still be glad to take him in, he told himself, and he was sure he could return to his apartments to channel this heartbreak into the same kind of ballads that he was famous for. The thought of the pity that he knew would linger in his friends’ faces when he returned without Geralt was enough to have him reaching forward and draining his glass.

Before he could order another, there was a full mug settled onto the table in front of him. “This seat taken?” someone asked.

Squinting, Jaskier looked up at the man in front of him. He was tall and broad in the way farmers usually were and had a friendly looking expression. Any other night, Jaskier might have been intrigued by the bright hazel of his eyes and the dimple that appeared when he smirked at the bard, but the feeling was unfathomable now.

“I’m not good company at the moment,” Jaskier rasped after a beat.

The man settled into the chair next to him with a companionable smile. “Seems a shame to waste such a pretty face with a frown,” he said easily. “I’m Corric.”

Jaskier didn’t bother to respond to the flirtatious statement. He wondered if the man would bother with him if he could see the scars that mottled Jaskier’s soul. If he knew he was a pie with no filling. A passing fancy that could be replaced with the person you _truly_ desired.

“Jaskier.”

“Nice to meet yo--wait,” Corric frowned at him, looking him over with more intent. “Why do I know that name?”

Jaskier didn’t respond, just reached for the new mug of alcohol to drain it in a long gulp.

“Oh! You’re the bard--” When will that title stop feeling like a punch to the gut? “--You travel with the White Wolf!”

“Traveled,” Jaskier corrected brusquely. He stared over at Corric drink with barely contained longing.

Gods, what he would do to just forget for a little while.

As if he noticed the direction of Jaskier’s thoughts, Corric gestured to the barmaid to bring them another round and nudged his own glass closer to the bard. “Want to talk about it?” he asked after another meaningful pause.

“No.”

“Fair enough,” Corric smiled as the next round was delivered, “Let’s drink.”

* * *

Jaskier didn’t remember blacking out.

His memory was full of fuzzy pain and the numbness of the alcohol in his veins. His head throbbed in time with his heart and he gave a low, miserable groan at the sensation. It had been a long time since he’d drunk himself into a stupor and his body was more than happy to remind him about why that was. His back and neck were stiff enough that he was sure he’d fallen asleep sitting upright and would have a day of discomfort ahead of him.

Shifting, he frowned when the motion was halted by another familiar sensation.

Rope.

He forced his gritty eyes open and blinked away the worst of the dizziness to take in his surroundings. Instead of the warm tavern walls, he was surrounded by an empty space lit by weak sunlight filtering through the holes in the rotting roof. A quick sniff confirmed the building must have been used to house horses and the hay in its earliest imagining. 

Jaskier tilted his head gingerly to the side, debating the merits of pretending to still be asleep until the room didn’t feel like it was spinning around him. Quietly, he flexed his arms against the ropes for any sign of weakness and had to breathe through the panic when they didn’t budge.

Experience told him that no bandits would bother to go this far for the meager coins he had on his person. None of his clothing signaled any kind of wealth and he’d passed out in the middle of a tavern. It didn’t make any sense. He didn’t even know what town he’d stumbled into in his mad dash to escape the collapse of his world. The only person he’d even spoken to was--

The sound of the barn door opening jerked him away from his thoughts as a man stepped through the shadows towards him. Jaskier felt all of his feeble hopes that this was just a mistake die a quick death at the sight of the cruel smile on Corric’s face.

“Jaskier,” he said with obvious glee, “I’m so glad you’re awake.”

“What do you want with me?” Jaskier demanded, grasping at his bravado with trembling fingers. “I don’t have any money.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“Then why am I here? What could you possibly want with me?” He ignored the way his voice cracked on the last word. Or the part of him that wanted to scream at the unfairness of being dragged into another clusterfuck after all that had happened.

Corric walked over to a table just out of Jaskier’s eyesight and the bard tried not to flinch at the familiar sound of a blade being drawn. When he walked back in front of him, Jaskier could feel a new terror bloom to life in the pit of his stomach.

“That was your first mistake,bard--thinking this was about you.”

Jaskier forced his eyes to remain steady on Corric’s face even as the knife inched closer. “Then who is this really about?”

“Why the Witcher, of course.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about to get real bad for Jaskier.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for the ouch.

His life was reduced to a symphony of pain.

The life in his veins dripped a steady rhythm onto the ground below him, matching the sluggish heartbeat in his ears. Ragged breaths took the place of the woodwinds to rise and fall with each new wave of pain. When his mind began to drift, Jaskier found himself listening to the sound of his death approaching and wondering why he could no longer string together the words to match it.

It was as though the music left him the moment he’d seen  _ them _ together.

Jaskier sneered at his idiocy. He’d known that there was no chance he could keep the life he’d glimpsed in that cottage by the sea. He’d never been the type that anyone wanted to settle down with. He was a passing fancy, a shiny new toy that could be tossed aside as soon as something better came along. It was a lesson he’d learned when he’d found his bags packed outside the Countess’ manor and in the brief letter delivered at Oxenfurt that informed him he was no longer welcomed at Lettenhove. 

For Geralt, he’d been stupid enough to learn the lesson twice. The reminder of the words shouted on the mountain after the dragon hunt now served as a painful reminder for what was to come. 

_ If life could give me one blessing- _ -

If life could give him one blessing, Jaskier would have walked away after the first blow to his pride and his gut on the road to Posada. He would never have to know what it was like to lay your heart at another person’s feet, only to watch it be crushed beneath their feet. He could have amused himself with the ballads and tunes that kept his stomach full and a roof over his head.

And he wouldn’t have to consider a world where he was dying with the knowledge that no one was coming to save him lingering like a poison in his veins.

Across from him, Corric held his whips and knives like an artist painting a scene only he could imagine. His shirt and arms were splattered with blood from each slash of the whip against the bard’s skin. It may he’d the tapestry of agony discoloring Jaskier’s skin. 

The worst though, was the way he  _ smiled _ .

“This can all stop,” he promised, “All of this pain can end now. You just need to tell me where he is.”

Jaskier couldn’t muster up the pithy one-liners he’d managed hours before so he only spat a mouthful of blood at the other man’s feet. “Fuck. You.” he panted.

A sigh. “Have it your way then.”

* * *

Ciri wasn’t speaking to them. Not that he blamed her.

She’d returned the night Jaskier disappeared looking more distant and cold than Geralt had ever seen her. There was none of the easy chatter that he’d gotten used to in the last year. No laughter or ridiculous songs to fill the air as they cooked dinner while Yennefer pretended not to smile into her book.

Now the silence felt like a punishment.

Without Jaskier, it was as though the very soul of their home was gone. Suddenly, he could see the cracks in the plaster and all the dust gathered on the shelves. The first day they went hours without food and realized abruptly that it had been Jaskier who’d always dragged them back for meals with his good-natured rambling and stories. The reminder had been enough to ensure that none of them gathered now, somber as people around a tomb.

Yennefer had tried to explain the truth of things, about the Order and the threat to Jaskier. It had been the only thing to keep Ciri from running after Jaskier. It didn’t mean the former princess had lost any of her fury at them.

“You should have told him the truth.”

Geralt felt his shoulders tense at the accusation in her voice even if he didn’t turn to immediately face Ciri. “He wouldn’t have wanted to go where he would be safe.”

“So you two thought it was best to make him feel like everything important to him was a lie?”

Shame and something like heartbreak made Geralt’s stomach twist. “He wasn’t safe,” he said stubbornly.

“He could have been safe if he knew what you knew!” 

Eyes flashing with matching irritation, the two of them glared at one another. Geralt opened his mouth, but was cut off by the sound of the door to the cottage opening and Yennefer stepping inside. The mage looked atypically upset and her eyes flickered around the room like she was searching for someone before remembering he wasn’t here.

Finally she focused on Geralt with something close to desperation in her violet eyes.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

* * *

“All you have to do is sing for me, little bard,” Corric crooned as his knife bit into the muscle of Jaskier’s chest. “Tell me where I can find him and I’ll let you go.”

Jaskier tried to consider a world where he could betray Geralt even after all that the White Wolf had done and knew it was impossible. 

So he gasped at the pain wracking his body. He screamed at the sound of snapping bone. And he cried when Corric stepped away and he was left in the darkness with the knowledge that no one was coming to save him this time. 

But he never sang. Never begged. 

Never hoped. 

* * *

“What do you mean  _ something’s wrong _ ?” Geralt demanded, coming to his feet like he was prepared to fight whatever had caused this level of fear in the sorceress.

Yennefer passed across the room, raking her fingers through her hair until it was tangled around her face. “I was tracking him,” she said hurriedly, “I didn’t--I wasn’t sure if he would do something stupid after…”

Immediately, the room felt like it was suffocating beneath the tension of everything that had happened. Everything they’d destroyed.

She took a breath, settling a thin layer of calm like a mask over her features. “I wanted to make sure he was okay. That he made it to Oxenfurt.” 

“What happened?” Geralt demanded.

Yennefer shook her head, pulling an amulet out of her pocket and pressing her hands to it. “I can’t locate him anymore. He either removed my tracker or something is blocking it.”

“Where was the last place you tracked him?”

Even as he grabbed his gear and walked outside to get Roach, he couldn’t help the silent mantra repeating over and over in his mind.

_ If something happened to Jaskier... _

* * *

“You won’t survive much longer.”

The words barely registered over the dull throb of pain. His thoughts slowed in a sluggish tandem, reduced to nothing more than waiting for the next blow to land. 

His body was limp in the chains Corric had wrapped around his wrists to drag him upright. For a while, he’d been able to keep his feet under him to keep the weight off his arms, but he’d long since lost the strength. His clothes had been stripped away as a final indignity designed to make it easier for his torturer to access his body. 

Corric tsked, reaching out to drag Jaskier’s head up so he was forced to look at him through swollen eyes. “Why are you trying to save him, hm? It’s not like he loved you.”

Jaskier’s eyes closed against the raw truth in Corric’s voice and felt the string of salt against the cuts on his cheeks. He didn’t protest. 

“Did he pretend to love you? Is that why you’re so loyal even now?” Corric pressed. He made a sympathetic sound. “Poor little bard, did you really believe he could love you? Is that why you were sobbing in that dirty little tavern?”

A wretched sound drifted out from Jaskier’s clenched teeth even as he told himself he wouldn’t give Corric the pleasure of seeing him break. He could ignore the ache in his chest long enough to ensure that this madman never got his hands on Geralt, Yennefer, or Ciri. 

They could have the happy ending he’d written for himself. 

* * *

“The amulet died outside of this tavern,” Yennefer said as soon as their horses slowed.

Ciri slid down from behind her and cast a critical eye at the run down building. “He probably could have made it this far on foot.”

If he was running, she didn’t say. She didn’t need to.

Geralt barely waited for Roach to come to a stop before he leapt off and forced his way inside. The inn could have been any of the countless waystations he’d used over his years on the Path. The only difference was what it was missing--Jaskier.

Scanning the smoky interior, he ignored the drunken humans scattered around and made his way to the wooden table that passed for a bar. A scowling man was busy clearing away the tables and barely looked up when the Witcher came closer. “No work for your kind here, mutant,” he growled.

“I’m looking for someone,” Geralt bit out, trying to resist the urge to release some of his frustration on the man’s face. “A bard. He’s got--”

“We haven’t had a bard here in weeks.” The man didn’t even bother to look like he cared about whatever Geralt might ask next as he stomped off toward the back.

Geralt took a step after him, but Ciri caught his arm. “They won’t let us search for him if you start a fight with the humans.”

“ _ They aren’t helping. _ ”

“Maybe you were too polite,” Yenn growled, her eyes narrowed on one of the men attempting to look down her dress.

“Sir?”

Geralt turned at the sound of the quiet voice to find a smallish female looking like she was one second away from bolting for the door. He tried to school his features into something more approachable, but figured it didn’t work when she only clutched a serving tray closer to her chest.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The girl’s eyes darted between them before she seemed to gather her courage and faced him head on. “You’re the Witcher he was talking about, aren’t you?”

_ “You saw Jaskier? _ ” he demanded, stepping closer in his eagerness. “Where is he?”

Some of her intimidation seemed to disappear beneath something close to a protective iciness. “He said you left him.”

The words felt worse than a blade to the gut.

He swallowed, fighting down bile and regret. Beside him, he watched Yennefer’s jaw clench and her eyes drop to the floor. “We…” he faltered, unwilling to let the lie stand any longer. “It isn’t what he thought.”

The barmaid stared at him for a moment longer. “Are you here to bring him home then?”

Geralt hesitated, the knowledge of the Order keeping him from the answer he wanted to give, but Ciri filled the silence confidently. “Yes,” she said, glaring at Yennefer and Geralt, “he should never have been misled in the first place.”

Yennefer grumbled under her breath, but she could hardly argue when they were facing the reality of how much their plan could cost them.

“He was here two nights ago,” the girl finally said, jerking her chin toward the now-empty tables. “Looked like he had been running for a while and didn’t have anything with him.”

“Did he speak to anyone?” Yennefer asked when Geralt went silent at the image her words had created.

“Another traveler bought him a few drinks. It looked like the bard was well on his way to truly drunk before the man helped him leave.”

Geralt’s stomach went cold. “Did they get a room here?”

She shook her head. “No, it didn’t look like he was interested in anything like that.”

“Where did they go then? Is there someone else they could’ve stayed?”

“The only other village isn’t for miles,” the barmaid said after a thoughtful pause. “They had to have found somewhere closer as drunk as they were. Maybe they went to a barn to sleep off the drink.”

Geralt’s mind spun with the new information and he could see Yennefer considering all the ways they could track them from here. “Do you remember anything else?”

“Oh, there was one more thing--the traveler was wearing one of those badges. You know, the ones that mark them as a member in that new group traveling around here? The Order, I think they’re called.”

That quickly, the world seemed to burn to ash around them.

* * *

He was dying. 

With every drop of blood splattering on the mottled ground below him, his final moments were being crafted. It wasn’t the glorious ending he’d imagined in the years where he’d followed Geralt on his hunts. Nor was it the softer more emotional end of a man who’d lived his life surrounded by people who loved him. 

Now, more than ever, he knew that had always been outside of his reach. 

Stupid, heartsick boy. 

_ Did you really think he could love you? _

By now, Corric’s voice had chased away the cherished memories of waking with Geralt pressed against his side. His mind couldn’t seem to remember the last time the Witcher had said he loved him. All he could seem to picture was the sight of Yennefer stepping out of their room, the way her hands trailed over Geralt, the guilt in his eyes—

He wondered if Geralt would ever know what happened to him. ( A darker part whispered that he wouldn’t care.) Jaskier tried to imagine what Geralt might look like when he was told that the idiotic bard that had followed him so long had bled out in some idiotic attempt to lure the Witcher in. Would he feel guilty? Or just relieved that he no longer had to worry about Jaskier ruining his life together with Yennefer. 

Maybe it was better this way, when the effort of breathing began to create nothing more than black spots dancing around his vision. He could pretend this was just another adventure. Just another ballad that would end on a gasp that left his audience in tears…

If he just closed his eyes, he could pretend Geralt was coming for him. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

It took the better part of a day before Jaskier realized things were even worse than even he could’ve imagined. 

Corric wasn’t asking questions.

Jaskier had had the distinctly unpleasant of being kidnapped or captured three times before this. Once, by an alderman who thought a Witcher might work faster if he was afraid for his companion’s life. He hadn’t been mistreated aside from the indignity of being left in a cell without even a lute to entertain himself with nor any decent food. The second ‘capture’ had been a little more alarming, courtesy of the way the group of bandits had given him a few blows in order to ascertain where he kept his coin purse. With Geralt gone for the winter, there hadn’t been much else for him to do but point a shaking hand toward his pack.

And finally, there had been the week he’d spent miserably cold and underfed in the cellars of a lord wanting to find out about any sort of weakness a Witcher might have for him to use against them. Jaskier had believed the man was more interested in his own private Witcher army and had been happy to fill his head with all sorts of lies. Eskel had nearly wet himself the next spring when the arrogant lord had presented him with an iron ring that was meant to bind him to the human for the rest of their lives.

In each of these instances, he’d been pressed with questions and easy to unravel plots that told him exactly what his captors really wanted. A Witcher, money, fame--none of it really mattered to him. They talked. They rambled. Sometimes they even preached, but they always gave him some kind of angle that he could use to his advantage for an escape or revenge.

Corric did none of these things.

The man continued to beat and abuse Jaskier’s battered body with the single minded focus of a man who didn’t truly see the body before him. He did not laugh like the shadows of men that lingered at the edge’s Jaskier’s vision or respond to their mocking suggestions. His eyes had the same sort of manic gleam that Jaskier remembered from the travelling flagellants of his youth, beating their bodies like drums and spraying the road with proof of their devotion. Jaskier’s body was reduced to a means to an end--though the bard was afraid to wonder what he might do if he were to get his hands on Geralt.

There was no need for further questions after Jaskier had resolutely sworn that he wouldn’t give away the Witcher’s location. Even if Geralt had broken his heart more than once, Ciri deserved to be safe. It would be his final legacy to her.

* * *

Yennefer dropped into a chair next to Ciri with a rough sound of frustration. Dark circles marred the usual pale silk of her skin and her clothes were far more rumpled than she had ever allowed. Her hair was frizzing in the humidity and heat and she blew a few strands away with impatience.

Geralt didn’t need to ask to know she still hadn’t found any sign of Jaskier. 

“How could they have found a mage powerful enough to keep you from finding him?” Ciri asked, eyes dark with worry.

The sorceress’ lips flattened into a frown before she reached into her pocket and set something small onto the table. A button bearing the same bronze filigree of Jaskier’s favorite jacket glinted up at them in the firelight. Geralt spared a thought for how long it must have taken her to swap out a button in each of the garments Jaskier preferred to use.

“I found this at the edge of the road. They must have removed it when they took him,” she said. “That they knew to look means they knew what he meant to us.”

Ciri glowered, but didn’t protest. It would be a long time before the lion cub forgave or forgot the damage they’d done in an attempt to protect Jaskier, for all the good it had done them.

“Were there any towns near where you found it?” Geralt cut in. “If he was unconscious like the barmaid said, one man wouldn’t be able to carry him on his own very far.”

“There could have been more waiting outside of the bar waiting to assist.” Yennefer’s eyes were hard as she continued to list all the ways they could be wrong, “They might have taken the button off and dropped it off as a distraction to have us searching in the wrong direction. There’s no way to be sure.”

“We have to do something!” Ciri shouted, standing in a rush to pace across the floor.

Geralt grabbed his gear and stood. “We’ll start at the tavern and move forward from there. The barmaid said that travelers stay in abandoned barns at times--I’ll find some farmers and see if they’ll tell me where they are in the area.”

“I’m coming with you.” He considered telling Ciri ‘no’, but paused when he took in the way her chin tilted up in challenge and the faint sheen in her eyes.

He grunted and started for the door, pausing to direct the next statement to Yennefer. “See if you can get more out of the barmaid or any of the other humans. Maybe someone else saw them leave together. If either of us find anything, we’ll contact each other through the xenovox.”

* * *

Jaskier hung limply in his bonds, trying to pretend like he was only catching his breath.

Not long now. He knew that with the certainty so many must when they stare into the eyes of death and see it looking back at them. He considered holding on to life with the same tenacity that he’d applied to every step of his journey from the gates of Lettenhove to now. Not that it did him much good.

All he could do was watch the way Corric kept his eyes on the door of the ramshackle barn in between sessions. He was good at recognizing the anticipation that hid beneath the lingering glances and perked ears, always ready for the first sound of an approaching footstep. Jaskier had spent far too many years of his life waiting for exactly that.

Only to have it stolen from him.

So he watched, waiting for exactly the moment when Corric’s confidence could lead to his undoing.

* * *

It took four attempts before Geralt found a farmer willing to listen to the questions of an increasingly frantic Witcher.

“There’s a few old hay barns around here, I suppose,” the man drawled, squinting distractedly up at the sun as though he were counting the minutes wasted by conversation.

“Could you mark them on a map?”

The man shrugged. “Not much need. All you need to do is follow the creek there--” He paused to gesture to the sluggishly moving water just out of sight, “--and you’ll find them within a few miles. All of those were abandoned after the rainy season caused flooding. Wasn’t worth patching them up with all the rot.”

Geralt tried not to seem as eager as he was for the information. “Which is closest to the tavern?”

The man frowned, beginning to look askance at the Witcher asking so many questions. “Is there some beast prowling around this area?”

“Only the human kind.”

  
  


A few minutes later, Geralt and Ciri were racing across the plowed field and into the rougher terrain of the woods beyond. He tugged up the chain where his medallion rested to reach for the small charm engraved with a bouquet of lilacs and buttercups. His fingers warmed the metal even as he continued to scan the area for any sign of the barn that had been described to them.

“Yenn,” he murmured into the xenovox. “We might have found him.”

The response was immediate. “Where?”

“A mile or so east of the tavern where he was taken. You need to get here--we can’t afford to wait.”

He didn’t wait for her response and was rewarded only a few minutes later by the wind whipping the high grasses and trees around him into a brief frenzy. Ciri turned expectantly, dancing on her toes with a new excitement now that they had the possibility of results just a few yards away.

Even Yennefer looked far too intense for someone more used to hiding her emotions behind sneers. Her violet eyes scanned the area around them eagerly. “What did you find out?”

“There are at least two barns abandoned nearby after the floods,” he reported shortly, “They match what the barmaid thought his abductor might hide him away in.”

“Just as well. It’s the only thing close to a lead that we’ve gotten so far.”

They moved forward as silently as possible, faces grim with a mixture of eagerness and worry. Geralt wished he’d thought to make Ciri remain at the cottage with some sort of lie to spare her this experience. If they found Jaskier’s body--

He was spared the thought by the sight of a weathered looking building just ahead of them. The barn had clearly seen better days and he could make out the stain left behind by the water from the placid stream nearby. His senses couldn’t make out any sounds over the noise of the cicadas and various insects drawn by the waters. He tried not to think about what could be hiding behind the closed doors. Tried not to breathe in the scent of the stagnant water and think about how it could pass for rot.

“Should I just rip it down?” Yennefer said, failing at the levity she was struggling to maintain. 

“Not when we don’t know if he’s inside.”

“We should circle it either way,” Ciri cut in, “to ensure they don’t try to escape with Jaskier or bring in any reinforcements.”

The mage and the Witcher looked down at the princess and tried not to think about why Ciri would know so much about laying siege to a building.

Geralt let out a grunt and moved away from the two of them, warning Ciri with a stern look not to wander far from the protective eye of Yennefer. They sent him matching disgruntled looks that he tolerated because all his mind could focus on was the first sign of any life inside of the barn in front of them. He kept his eyes and ears focused on it, cursing the sounds of the wood and wishing he could forgo stealth for the kind of violence he preferred in a hunt.

He ignored the way his heart was pounding against his ribs or the way his hands wanted to tremble instead of holding his weapon steady in preparation for the fight ahead. Jaskier was counting on him to make this right. He deserved more than to lose his life for yet another one of Geralt’s mistakes.

A soft bird call signalled that Yennefer and Ciri had managed to get into place at the barn’s entrance. That gave him three minutes to get into the barn before Yennefer began her assault. If there was no one inside, he would give the signal and then they would move to the next possible location. He eyed the doors to the haylofts above his head and focused on every bit of the training Vesemir had imparted on him in his youth. Step lightly. Watch your surroundings for anything that might reveal your presence. Ensure your gear is properly settled so it won’t rattle against anything.

Attack without mercy.

He pulled himself up with barely a grunt of effort, grateful for something to do besides pace the floor and worry. The hayloft’s upper reaches stink of mold and wood rot, but give him his first look into what the interior looked like.

“I’m beginning to grow tired of these games,” a voice muttered nearby, “It’s obvious that the Witcher isn’t coming.”

Another man chimed in a moment later. “It’s not surprising--Witchers are incapable of caring about anyone but the monsters their fucking.”

Someone coughed, breath rattling in their lungs deeply enough to make Geralt wince. Then,

“You seem to spend an awful lot of time thinking about who Witchers are fucking.”

_ Jaskier _ .

The sound of a fist striking against a body brought Geralt further into the darkness of the barn, gritting his teeth against the urge to rip apart everyone below him. There was a terrible mixture of relief and remorse that made him want to rip the world apart. He looked over the edge with the last of his patience, eyes flicking immediately to the miserable figure hanging from their wrists in the center of the empty space.

Without the sound of his voice as a guide, it would be impossible to know who was surrounded by enemies below Geralt. The bard’s face was bruised beyond recognition and Geralt could smell the sharpness of iron and pick out the splatter of life’s blood on the ground beneath him. There was a tapestry of agony painted in hues of yellows and deep indigo along his exposed ribs, making each rise and fall of his chest pained.

He stepped toward the edge, unable to let Jaskier remain alone and hurt for a moment longer, when the barn shuddered beneath a roar of chaos.

The men shouted in alarm and Geralt lept down before they could gather their wits enough to respond to the unexpected attack. His knees screamed in protest, but he only rolled forward and pulled his sword free to slice across an unlucky man’s tendons. The Order member went down with a scream that made Geralt release a feral grin, pivoting to meet the sword of another.

Around him, the barn descended into chaos wrought by repeated bursts of magic slamming into the sides of the decaying building, rattling the rafters until it seemed inevitable to fall. It was obvious that the Order seemed to rely on the brute strength of their numbers rather than any sort of training or skill. They were easily pushed back once Geralt bloodied his sword with the bravest of their numbers. He caught sight of two turning to run back through the doors and mentally wished Ciri and Yennefer happy hunting.

Despite the fear of the others, one man stood out. His broad shoulders were hidden beneath a white shirt stained with wide arcs of blood that could only belong to the limp figure at the center of the room. He didn’t bother to consider the fates of his fellow members as he reached for the ropes keeping the bard in place and cut him down with a quick slice of his dagger.

Geralt roared as the man pressed the tip of that dagger against the thin skin of Jaskier’s neck. The bard’s head lulled limply, weak from his injuries. He caught sight of the Order leader’s smirk as he looked at the Witcher across the room.

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouted, bashing the pommel of his sword across another man’s nose in a spray of blood. “Let him go!”   
  


Without another opponent within reach, there was no one else between himself and the stranger holding Geralt’s heart in his hands. “Ah, Witcher. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come.”

“Let him go and I’ll let you live,” he replied, eyes fixed on the blade that was still pressed against Jaskier.

“I doubt that’s true.”

“He isn’t a part of this. This is between us.” Geralt fought not to flinch when the man laughed and Jaskier’s eyes fluttered without seeming able to take in what was happening around him.

The man grinned, something wild and unholy in his eyes. “His life was forfeit the moment that he agreed to let you touch him, to follow you across the Continent.” His grip tightened until Jaskier winced, “He is a traitor to his own kind.”   
  


“Take me instead,” Geralt pleaded. “You hate my kind--surely it would be more satisfying to end my life than to kill another human.”

“I’ll kill him and then finish you while you’re still weeping--”

Both of them stared in shock as Jaskier shifted with impossible speed. Bruised hands went tight around the Order member’s wrist in a move Geralt distantly remembered teaching the bard while they were traveling together. A twist, swift and sharp enough to draw a gasp from his opponent, before the knife slipped.

Geralt felt like he was watching some terrible nightmare. Trapped just outside of the passage of time that continued only around Jaskier.

The knife fell into a hand that was never trained for war--

And sank deep into the other man’s gut.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Geralt rushed forward before the knife finished it’s arc, his eyes fixed on the dead look in Jaskier’s eyes and injuries zigzagging across his exposed chest.

The Order’s leader stumbled, dark eyes going wide with shock and hands dropping to grab the handle still sticking out of his gut. He looked back at Jaskier with features twisted in rage. Before Geralt could reach him, his hand swept out in a vicious backhand that sent Jaskier to the ground with a wet thud.

It was the last thing he ever did.

The Witcher slammed into him with all the force he was so careful to avoid whenever he touched Jaskier. The human hit the ground hard, unable to do more than wheeze out a grunt of pain before Geralt was straddling his waist and slamming his fist into his face again and again. Blood sprayed against his face and he felt bone crunch beneath his fingers, but all he could think about was the dull way Jaskier had looked when the knife had gone against his throat. 

Like he was beyond caring.

“...ralt….” The rasp was barely audible, but Geralt froze like he’d been slapped.

Immediately, he dropped the body of the man and moved to Jaskier’s side. His hands shook as he took in the extent of his body, wishing his senses weren’t so sensitive that he could pick up the wet rasp that came with each feeble rise and fall of the bard’s chest.

“Gods, baby,” he breathed, heartbroken and suffocating beneath his own guilt, “what did they do to you?”

Jaskier’s eyes flickered restlessly, unable to focus on anything long. He twitched when Geralt reached out to brush away a strand of dark hair and cupped a swollen cheek. His lips shaped words that even Geralt couldn’t hear, but he could still make out the stutter in the bard’s heartbeat.

“ _ Yennefer _ !” Geralt turned to bellow at the door. Then he focused on the bard, trying to decide which injury needed to be treated immediately, “Stay with me, Jaskier. Don’t you dare close your eyes.”

The bard opened his eyes to finally fix on the Witcher’s face, pupils blown wide with the pain that made him tremble in sharp waves. His skin was pale beneath his tan and mottled with new and fading bruises. He frowned at Geralt, blinking sluggishly, “W’...d’ you come?”

In his long life, Geralt had taken a number of blows that were designed to cripple a man. Each time he’d been able to limp away and pass off the memory of the pain as something else time would let him forget.

Somehow, he knew he would never forget this moment or those words on Jaskier’s lips.

“I--” he started, but cut himself off when the barn doors were thrown open.

He reached for his sword, but relaxed when Yennefer’s familiar figure stepped through the doors to scan the room with fierce eyes. In a moment, she’d zeroed in on the two of them and came as close to running as she’d ever managed when she recognized Jaskier on the ground.

“Is he?” she asked, worry and fear lacing her voice. 

Geralt shook his head when Jaskier only closed his eyes. “We need to get him to Tris.”

Yenn’s jaw went tight with tension as she took in the extent of his injuries. “Oh, bardling, you’re looking rougher than usual,” she said, trying for the rhythm of their old banter and failing. Her lips went into a grim line and she avoided looking at Geralt. “Are they all dead?”

“Jaskier!?” Ciri’s voice was frantic and both of them looked up when she raced into the room, not giving any of the bodies more than a passing glance when she caught sight of them crouched around a body. “Fuck,” she said when she got close enough to see the wreckage of the bard’s body.

Geralt winced, but didn’t protest. “Yenn, open the portal to Tris. I’ll carry him.”

The mage nodded and he felt the familiar crackle of power in the air around them like a coming storm. There was no easy way to lift Jaskier without hurting him, but he tried to be as gentle as possible. Without his familiar chatter and charismatic personality filling the air around him, Jaskier felt smaller, more brittle than he’d ever allow normally.

He’d done that to him. He’d  _ broken _ him.

“Geralt?”

The Witcher didn’t look over at the two women, just cradled the last fragments of his heart close to his chest, and stepped through the portal.

* * *

Triss looked up in surprise at the sound of a portal opening, hands still pressed against the poultice she was using to staunch an infection on one of Foltest’s soldier’s legs. She’d been knee deep in similar injuries ever since the trainees were ordered to do a march through a local swamp to hunt down a few drowners. Despite this, she hadn’t been expecting any other visitors.

Whatever irritation she might have summoned disappeared once she recognized who was stepping out.

“Geralt? What is--” Her question cut off with a gasp as she took in the extent of the damage done to the limp body cradled in the Witcher’s big hands. “What happened?”

Even as she asked, she was already clearing away the various odds and ends left behind by her last patient and made room on the nearest bed. Her mind was already darting through her mental inventory of potions and herbs along with how she could even begin to fix what had been broken. 

(Why did Yennefer and Geralt always assume she could heal everything?)

Jaskier’s pulse was thready and weak enough that Tris felt a new bolt of worry go through her. The bard was covered in cuts and abrasions that would need to be cleaned and stitched. She could hear the rattle in his chest that signaled some sort of illness and she was willing to bet there was at least one broken rib lurking beneath the mottled bruising. She didn’t need to ask how the injuries came to be--not after the horrors of Sodden and Nilfgaard’s madness.

Torture left scars that would never truly heal, after all.

Geralt lowered the bard onto the bed with excessive care and moved back a scant distance when Triss pushed him out of the way. Distantly, she noted that Yennefer and Ciri were pressing in beside him, but ignored them in favor of channeling her own chaos to force the weakened heart in Jaskier’s chest to continue to beat.

“Is he going to be okay?” Ciri’s voice was brittle with hope, reminding them all in an instant of how much the girl had already lost in her young life.

Triss wished she could give them the answer they wished for. Worse was the despair that spread through him like a poison, leaking out with each pained breath as though he continued to breath through habit instead of desire. She opened her mouth to repeat the useless platitudes she’d given time and time again--

Jaskier’s back bowed in an impossible arch, eyes opening without seeing anything. His mouth opened on a soundless scream of pain and Triss didn’t need the quick thrum of her own senses to tell her they were running out of time. She brought her hands down on his shoulders, keeping him from doing any more damage.

“What’s happening?” Geralt’s voice sounded panicked.

Shock, her mind supplied with the critical voice that sounded too much like Tisseia. She knew better than anyone that it was rarely the initial injuries that killed her patients. Too much pain, too much blood loss would drag them to their graves just as quickly as any well-aimed arrow.

“He’s seizing,” Triss said briskly, “I’m going to have to knock him out.”

Her magic crackled through the air even as the Witcher growled a warning. Jaskier’s body trembled once more before falling limp against the mattress--the only sign of life the erratic rise and fall of his chest. She heard Yennefer come closer, keeping Geralt from interrupting, but couldn’t focus on anything, but the flickering life in front of her.

_ “You have to save him!”  _

Triss felt a hand reach for her shoulder and batted it away impatiently. She whirled to face the trio and snapped, “Get out of here--I don’t need any more distractions.”

For a moment, she thought they wouldn’t listen, but then Yennefer’s expression hardened and she reached out to drag the Witcher and the lion cub out of the room. At the doorway, the mage hesitated, looking back at where Triss was beginning to channel her magic into shoring up the bard’s strength.

“Please, Triss…” The normally imperious voice was terribly fragile and Triss risked looking away in time to watch Yennefer swallow hard. “He is--he deserves more than dying like this.”

The healer listened to the door close behind her and got to work.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnnnd we're back with more healing and angst.

Jaskier came awake to a mind hazy with pain.

He kept his breathing slow and steady, not wanting to show that he was awake. His shoulders ached and throbbed enough that he wanted to twitch, to whimper, but he knew better now. Corric seemed to interpret each sound of agony as an invitation to create more reasons for them.

“Jaskier?” The sound of Ciri’s voice was shocking enough that his eyes flew open in a panic.

_ Nononononononono _

_ Not her. Please gods, not her. _

His breath rasped out of his chest in a terrified rhythm as he looked around the room for the pale haired former princess. He had to find a way to get her out of here before Corric came back. Before he returned with more ways to break him.

“Jaskier,” Ciri’s face appeared above him even as grey spot began to dance around the edges of his vision, “Jaskier, you need to breathe. You’re safe. We got you out.”

He tried to focus on her instead of the roaring in his ears, but all he could think about was the way Corric smiled at him as his knife sliced across his bare skin. 

_ He’ll probably thank me for this, you know. For getting rid of the troublesome bard who just inserted himself into his life. _

It felt like his lungs were burning, refusing to fill with air. His fingers clenched down on the blankets until his joints creaked in protest.

“ _ Triss _ ! Something’s wrong!”

Distantly, he felt hands stroking over his face, pulling him back into the dark and the voice in his head that whispered,

_ He was right. He was right. _

* * *

The next time he opened his eyes, he was lucid enough to realize that the soft mattress under him and the blankets tucked up to his chin meant he was no longer in the barn with Corric. He could smell the sharp scents of drying herbs and the clean smoke from the fire he could hear crackling in the hearth beside the bed. From there, it only took a few more minutes before he realized that the memory of stabbing the man was more than just a fever dream.

“Are you feeling better?” 

He opened his eyes and found Triss setting aside a book to focus fully on him. Jaskier licked his cracked lips and swallowed through an uncomfortably dry throat. “What happened?”

The effort of speaking sent him into a coughing fit that made it feel like his lungs were on fire. Triss helped ease him into a more upright position and pressed a glass of water against his lips. He drank deeply, wincing at the sensation of the water hitting his empty stomach.

“You’ve been asleep for three days,” the mage said once he’d caught his breath. “Yennefer, Geralt, and Ciri showed up with you in pretty rough shape. You were--”

“He’s dead?” Jaskier interrupted, voice flat.

Triss eyed him with a terrible sort of understanding in her expression and nodded. “Yes. You stabbed him before you collapsed, I was told.”

“Good.”

There was a savage sort of satisfaction in knowing that Corric would never be able to hurt him again and that Jaskier was able to secure his revenge for himself. He wasn’t some useless bard who couldn’t protect himself. He was strong enough to manage that much.

“I’m sure Geralt and the others will be happy to see you’re awake,” Triss said with a smile as she stood. “I’ll tell them you’re up.”

“No-” The thought of having to watch Geralt and Yennefer pretend to be surprised by yet another example of their former bard becoming a nuisance made him feel sick, “I don’t want to see them.”

A frown. “They’ve been really wor--”

“I said no, Triss.”

She sighed, “Alright, Jaskier. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

He nodded and closed his eyes to avoid seeing the pity in her eyes.

* * *

“He’s still very weak.”

“Is he going to be able to recover? I saw how badly he was hurt and--”

“The kinds of injuries the bard is recovering from are deeper than the scratches and bruises you saw. Give him time.”

* * *

“You’re being an asshole.”

Jaskier gave up pretending to still be asleep to frown at Ciri. The princess had made herself comfortable on the abandoned chair beside the bed. Despite her last words and challenging tone, she picked nervously at a seam on her dress and he could practically smell the nerves radiating from her.

It was obvious that she wouldn’t accept the silence and fake sleeping routine that kept Triss from asking anything more from him. It had been two days since he’d first woken up in this room and he still hadn’t left the bed to do more than go to the restroom. Triss tried almost every day to coax him into walking around the room to try to work his abused body and speed his healing, but he ignored her. When she became more stern, he just rolled onto his side and closed his eyes to shut the world out.

One look at Ciri’s face proved she wouldn’t be avoided so easily. He sighed, exhausted by the conversation he knew was coming. “Why’s that?”

“You’re letting that bastard win,” she said bitterly. “You’re hiding and pretending like you don’t have a reason to keep fighting.”

Jaskier let his eyes fall to the blanket beneath his fingertips, fighting to keep his breath even. “You don’t understand,” he finally whispered.

“No, I don’t.” Her hand reached out to wrap around his and made him tremble. “But I want to.”

“I don’t know how to come back from this,” he admitted.

This wasn’t some monster lurking in the shadows. It wouldn’t disappear with the knowledge that he’d already killed it and seen it to its grave. This fear was like a sickness, sinking into his bones and climbing up his throat to suffocate him.

“You keep fighting.” Her eyes blazed up at him, reminding him of the queen she was meant to be. “You don’t let that fucking maniac beat you. Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he broke you.”

He made a rough sound, but didn’t pull away. Didn’t tell her how often he wondered if Corric hadn’t already destroyed what was left in the ashes of walking in on Geralt and Yennefer.

For a long time, they stayed there in silence, relishing the knowledge that they were both alive and together.

“They keep asking to see you,” Ciri said abruptly, grimacing like the words tasted sour in her mouth. 

He doesn’t need to think about who ‘they’ were. Just the thought of Geralt and Yennefer being nearby had kept him late into the night after he’d realized that if Ciri was there, they would be too. After so many years at Geralt’s side, he knew the Witcher would feel guilty for his part in Jaskier’s capture and subsequent torture. Yennefer was probably responsible for getting Triss’ help in nursing him back to health too. That understanding didn’t make him feel any less of the betrayal from what had happened before.

How was he ever supposed to look at either of them without remembering the singular devastation of knowing what they had done behind his back? He’d been so happy living in the lie that they had created of a happy family. He’d  _ trusted _ them,  _ loved _ them both. Maybe that was why it hurt so badly to find out that his feelings for them had only been a joke to them. He imagined them laughing about it when he was out of the room and exchanging lingering looks that he was too foolish, too in love to understand.

His stomach roiled with anxiety that made his voice tremble. “I can’t see them. I--I  _ can’t _ , Ciri.”

Immediately, he found himself with his arms full of Ciri’s lean form--anchoring him to the present when he felt like he was slipping back to the barn where Corric was waiting to begin again.

“I’ll keep them away. I  _ promise _ , Jaskier. You’re safe here.”

* * *

“No.”

“Ciri, you don’t understand--”

“I don’t want to understand why you decided to do what you did. I won’t let you make him feel unsafe here.”

“We would  _ never _ hurt him.”

“You already did.”

* * *

_ The knife cut a burning line across his chest and he felt blood trickle in a warm path across his heaving chest. The pain made him breathless, burning deeply enough that he felt like he would look down and see his ribs gleaming beneath the muted sunlight. _

_ Corric leaned close enough that Jaskier could feel the heat of his breath. “Scream for me, bardling. Let me hear you  _ **_break_ ** _.” _

The door to his rooms shuddered under the force of the fist slamming into it, jarring Jaskier out of the nightmare.

His chest shuddered with the force of his sobbing breaths and he pressed his fist against his mouth to smother another scream before it could escape. He curled onto his side, wrapping his arms against his knees without caring about the protests from his injuries. Jaskier pressed his forehead against the stucco wall and tried to force his thundering heart to slow.

He closed his eyes and pretended he didn’t recognize the voice calling his name outside.

* * *

The next morning, he wasn’t surprised to hear the door open without waiting for him to welcome them inside.

He  _ was _ surprised to see that it wasn’t Ciri who settled onto the bedside chair.

It was Yennefer.

For a long moment, they stared at one another in silence, taking in the subtle changes to their appearance since their last moments together. The mage was more rumpled than Jaskier had ever seen her--dressed in a plain grey dress and hair tangled and tied back from her face in a messy bun. Dark circles marred the smooth skin of her face and lines of tension bracketed her eyes and mouth.

Violet eyes darted over his face, taking in the dullness in his eyes and the apprehension in his expression before her mouth pressed into a flat, humorless line.

“Hello, Jaskier.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonder what Yennefer has to say for herself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience in waiting for an update. I promise I haven't forgotten this story. I hope the angst in this chapter makes up for the delay.

He’d known it wouldn’t be long before Yennfer or Geralt managed to get into the relative safety of his room. There was too much between them to be satisfied with the muttered summaries Ciri shared when she wasn’t busy trying to chase them away. He wasn’t so caught up in the loss of his own love story to think the emotions between the three of them would disappear along with his relationship.

It didn’t make it any easier to look at her.

He expected to feel the same terrible, overwhelming chaos that had chased him away from the cottage by the sea. To be furious or grief stricken.

Instead, he felt numb.

“How did you get in?” he asked dully.

Yennefer’s lips twisted into a miserable smile. “A magician never reveals her tricks.” 

The joke fell flat in the growing silence.

The old Jaskier would have been quick to smirk or tease away the tension bracketing her slim frame. They might have exchanged a few biting quips in the same way softer people would offer hugs or gentle reassurance. The rest of the night would be passed over a bottle of wine too expensive for Geralt’s tastes while they gossiped about the latest court intrigues.

Now the memories sit like a poison in his veins. How was he supposed to reconcile the woman he’d loved like a sister with the one who’d stepped out of the bedroom wrapped in Geralt’s scent? How was he supposed to ever live with the bitter knowledge that matched the cruel scars littering his body? His fingernails bit into his palms like the sharp pain could balance out the ache in his chest.

“You…” she faltered, but rallied her courage and straightened her shoulders. “How are you feeling?”

Abruptly, the gaping emptiness within him seemed to ignite with something close to rage. He gritted his teeth against the urge to lash out, to scream, to demand some kind of justice for all that had happened to him.

How was it possible that he could have his heart broken by the same people twice? Gods, he was such a fucking idiot.

  
  


It wasn’t right that there was nothing to show for what they’d lost before Corric had ripped into him. It wasn’t right that he was facing a future where he had no home and no family waiting for him. He couldn’t go back to Kerrack and Oxenfurt was full of nosy students and audience members who would wonder why he’d returned alone. Valdo Marx would be delighted at the opportunity to immortalize his pain for the next generations.

He stared at her and tried to remember the last night they’d spent together before everything had come crashing down. They’d curled up together on the couch, listening to Geralt quiz Ciri over the ancient pages of the bestiary he must have stolen from Vesemir on his last trip to Kaer Morhen. He’d been happy, safe and surrounded by the people he’d loved with every piece of his heart and soul. He wondered if she’d known then what he knew now. 

Maybe it was better to believe that their tryst was some momentary act of passion instead of the result of months of skulking around behind his back.

“What do you want, Yennefer?” he rasped, wishing his voice wasn’t so raw and uneven.

“I--” She seemed at loss with how to handle the twisted expression on his face. Like she didn’t recognize the man sitting across from her. “I wanted to talk.”

“Talk.” The word was bitter.

“To explain. We-- _ fuck _ , we hurt you.”

Jaskier’s eyes slid away from her to stare at the wall across from him. It was easier than trying to swallow down the manic laughter at her weak description of the evening. Three words, he thought with a poet’s cruelty. Three words had once given him the world and now three were all it took to describe the way it came crashing down.

He was reminded of the bravery Yennefer had displayed countless times since Sodden when she continued on despite the heavy silence. “There’s more to what happened. I wanted you to know that it wasn’t what you thought.”

The bard’s lips trembled before he pursed them together in a tight line. “I don’t want to hear your excuses or explanations. Just go.”

“Jaskier…”

“What could you possibly say?” He said, words bursting free as he faced her with sudden fury. “How could you possibly explain what the two of you did? You made me think--” 

Jaskier cut himself off before he could release the raw noise rising up in his throat. His hand raised to his mouth, pressing against his lips until he could be sure the next sound he released wouldn’t be a sob.

“Please,” Yennefer whispered and he couldn’t seem to help looking over at her, surprised to hear something close to pleading in her voice. “Please, just let me show you.”

His eyes flicked between her face and the hand she slowly extended toward him. A silent offering. A decision that would forever mark his future moving forward. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, matching the unsteady rise and fall of her chest.

“Please, bardling,” she begged softly.

Jaskier nodded.

A moment later, her fingers touched his and the world fell away.

* * *

He watched a pale faced Geralt pull Yennefer aside while Jaskier and Ciri laughed over their cooking meal.

He listened to the frantic description of the dead Witcher. Of the Order hunting down anyone who was less than their definition of human.

_ “They’re dangerous, Yenn. I--I’m afraid they’ll find us. They’ll kill Jaskier just for loving us.” _

_ “We won’t let them. We’ll keep him safe. Both of them.” _

The images fade, moving through the mage’s memories as she let him see all of the secrets she’d kept hidden over the last month. She showed him the map the Witcher and the mage had kept as they tried to track the movements of the cult, slowly narrowing in on the area where they’d made their home. He can feel the ripples of her anxiety through each memory, like she could feel the noose tightening around their necks.

She focused on a scene late one evening in the relative safety of the barn set beside the cottage. He could make out the swish of Roach’s tail as she chomped on the oats in her trough.

_ “There’s too many of them,” _ Geralt was saying beside her.  _ “None of them want to give up who their leader is.” _

_ “One of them will break eventually. We just have to isolate one of them so they don’t fear repercussions from the rest of the cult.”  _ He could sense the underlying tension beneath her words, the subtle tremor within her own mind that proved she wasn’t so sure.

_ “We might not have time to wait for one of them to slip up--and even then we can’t be sure they’ll identify a leader.” _

_ “What other choice do we have?” _

The details shifted once more, clothing changing as the walls reformed into the familiar white walls of the inside of their home. She was toying with the wine goblet they’d bought from a market near Novigrad. It had been a running joke between the mage and the bard that she deserved a hint of the luxury she preferred even this far from civilization.

_ “Whoever they are, _ _ they’re going to come for us soon. You know this. They know we’re hunting them--that makes us a threat.”  _

She watched Geralt pace away from her, agitation radiating from every inch of him. Once, she might have teased more of a reaction from him. Now, she was hard pressed not to pace alongside him.

Her eyes dropped to the table where their notes were still scattered.  _ “Ciri will have to stay with us--she’s too valuable to risk letting them get their hands on her. They’d probably consider her to be a ‘tainted’ bloodline anyway.” _

_ “And Jaskier?”  _ It was the question neither of them seemed able to answer.  _ “Do you intend to leave him behind while you run off with Ciri?” _

The implication made her snarl.  _ “You know I don’t.” _

The bard was as much  _ hers _ as Ciri. Or Geralt, for that matter. It wasn’t often that she allowed herself to risk caring about another person. Jaskier had joined the ranks of a rare few and she had no intention of allowing anything to happen to him while she could still keep him safe.

The Witcher seemed to sense the emotions lurking beneath the grim expression.  _ “We can’t let the Order torture him to try to hurt us. He has to be safe.” _

They both knew that the quality that Jaskier possessed the least amount of was self-preservation. It was almost guaranteed that someone would trigger those instincts the moment they threatened someone the bard cared about. They’d both dragged the man away from bar fights started by someone foolish enough to disparage mages or Witchers.

There was no way he would agree to leave them to face the Order on their own.

_ “There’s...”  _ she said slowly, forcing away the part of her that wanted to stop this before she did something irreparable.  _ “We could make Jaskier leave us.” _

Geralt’s answer was instant and Jaskier felt himself ache at the way they’d once trusted each other.  _ “He would never do that. Especially if he knew that we were in danger.” _

_ “So we don’t let him know the Order is after us.” _

_ “And say what? ‘Hey Jask..why don’t you stay at the University for the season?’ He’s not an idiot--he’d want to know why.” _

_ “What if we made him want to leave?” _

In the present, Jaskier could feel his body twitching and his heart racing at the implication of each detail. It felt like he was hovering at the top of some awful peak, waiting for the moment when gravity began to drag him back to the earth. He was Icarus, feeling the wax melting between the feathers of his makeshift wings, and destined to fall.

Yennefer’s mind pulled himself toward a scene within the familiar confines of the room he’d shared with Geralt. She was watching the Witcher in question drag his fingers through his hair, tugging roughly at the light strands.

_ “It’s the only way.”  _ The words tasted like ash in her mouth.

_ “There’s got to be something else. This, this is--”  _ Geralt’s eyes were wild. _ “--He won’t be able to forgive this.” _

_ “They’ve too close now. You saw what they did to that selkie a few miles away.” _

_ “Maybe we can take him to Kaer Morhen with Ciri.” _

_ “We can’t hide them forever.” _

Geralt stopped next to the bed, reaching out to straighten the notebook Jaskier kept on the nightstand in case of inspiration. She watched his shoulders slump in misery at the thought of what they were contemplating.

_ “We won’t actually go through with anything,”  _ she said. “ _ He just has to be convinced to go back to Oxenfurt. Knowing him, he’ll probably write a few songs about the two of us and destroy any suspicion that he’s still connected to us. It’ll keep the Order away from him until we can kill off whoever is hunting us.” _

_ “And then what?”  _ Geralt’s voice was dull as his eyes fell on the bed still rumpled from the night they’d spent curled together. “ _ We can’t just ask him to pretend like this didn’t happen. This will  _ break _ him.” _

_ “We’ll tell him the truth. We can prove it was all to keep him safe.”  _ She wasn’t sure if she was convincing him or herself.

Outside the room, he heard the sound of the door opening and his own voice calling out to Geralt. He watched the Witcher’s eyes widen in a mixture of dread and panic before Yennefer’s magic swept out in a glamour designed to rip deep into Jaskier’s deepest insecurities.

_ “Ger--” _

* * *

Jaskier opened his eyes with a ragged sob. 

Beside him, Yennefer was silent and tense as she watched him press his palms to his eyes until the world was washed in shades of red and black. He could feel her hesitating to move closer as he worked through the lingering images left behind by her memories.

It...had all been a lie.

All of it. 

Every bit of the image that had sent him running from the cottage with his world crashing around him had been a carefully concocted story designed to keep him from understanding the threat they were really facing.

He felt like he was torn between the urge to laugh or to scream at the realization. Geralt and Yennefer had been so convinced that he couldn’t be rational enough to understand the threat of this Order that they’d decided it would be better to shatter his heart entirely. The worst was knowing that he’d given them the perfect weapon to break him with, had immortalized it in song and rhyme from the hazy days after the mountain.

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier,” she said, oblivious to what was going on within his mind. “We just wanted to protect you.”

_ “Do you think that makes it better?” _

She flinched at the acid in his tone and he dragged his hands away from his face to snarl at her with tear stained cheeks. “Did you think I would watch all that--see all the times you and Geralt lied and avoided telling me the truth--and be grateful that you weren’t fucking on top of everything else?” His voice was incredulous, biting.

“The Order would have killed you--”

“So would literally every other monster and zealot we faced on any other hunt,” he snapped, so furious he could barely think. It felt good to be as cruel as the lie they’d concocted--far better than the misery that had been his closest companion for days. “So would the countless bandits and drunken idiots that I’ve faced on the road long before I had the misfortune to follow a Witcher in Posada.”

Yennefer’s face returned to the careful blankness that he recognized as her attempt to disguise her true feelings. “We thought you would be safer in Oxenfurt than with us.”

“And didn’t bother to risk telling me why it was so vital that I stay away,” he continued for her, “Or that I should be on the look out for a group of people who might torture me and use me for bait to lure in you and Geralt.”

She swallowed hard, looking down at her hands. “Would you have gone if we had?”

He let out a derisive snort and shook his head. “Guess we’ll never know now.”

It felt like each new realization settled like a weight on his chest. He thought of all the hours he’d spent hanging from the ceiling of that blood stained barn thinking that he’d been abandoned and betrayed by the people he loved most. Only to find out that it was the truth--though not in the way he’d originally suspected.

“Jaskier--”

“Get out.”

Yennefer blinked, surprised. “Jaskier, I--”

_ “Get. Out.” _

The words were hissed between bared teeth, an animalistic mixture of rage and grief competing for control of his expression. His knuckles turned white with strain as he gripped his blankets between his fingers. He heard her slowly get to her feet, listened to her breath leave her chest in a slow release, before the door to his room opened and closed behind her.

Only then did he let the tears fall.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word: ouch.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you want more!


End file.
